6. The One Who Grasps Iron (2)
Even after Kasim and his mercenaries departed, the area around the forge stayed noisy for a good while. The market onlookers now gazed at me with a mix of awe and reverence, as if I were some enigmatic figure from Silla. But I cinched my gold pouch tight and headed back inside to grab my hammer.
"Barakah! No, Master! How many is this?! A lifetime's earnings in a single day..."
Rashid was buzzing with excitement, trying to count the coins, but I cut him off coldly.
"Rashid, this isn't the time to celebrate. The real hell starts now."
"What? The deal's done, the money's in— what's the problem?"
I pointed to the pile of crude iron ore stacked in the corner of the forge.
"We made the deal, so we have to deliver. That's fifty swords. They'll only come back if we make all fifty at this quality. With our current slapdash methods, we'd fall apart before finishing fifty blades."
At that, the smiles vanished from Rashid and Hasim's faces as reality sank in.
12th-century forges were pure cottage industry. Artisans slaved for months over a single fine sword. But what I'd envisioned in negotiating this deal was thorough division of labor—a primitive factory system.
"Barakah, in my life, each sword took forever, even pouring my soul into it. At this volume? A full year at least. How do you expect us to sleep?"
To Rashid's question, I flicked the hammer resting on the anvil with my finger.
"That's why it takes so long—because you're pouring your soul into it. What we need isn't soul; it's quick, precise hammer strikes. Rashid, from now on, we're dividing this forge into zones."
I drew lines in the dirt floor with a stick.
"Hasim, your spot starts today: in front of the grinding wheel. Your job is finishing only. Sharpen the blades after they're forged, learn their grain. Dad hammers, I shape the edge, you take it, hone it sharp, fit the hilt. Repeat."
"But... someday I have to hammer swords too..."
"After finishing fifty, you'll be the fastest sharpener around. Plenty of time to learn more after. You're young, right? When our forge grows and we get more apprentices, you'll teach the newbies just this one skill."
Hasim, still a kid, perked up at the expansion talk, muttering "My junior..." with newfound motivation.
I turned to Rashid.
"You focus solely on forging. Stretch and flatten the metal to the length and thickness I specify. No need to shape or quench in unfamiliar ways. Just hammer it into the perfect state for my quenching. After thirty years at the bellows and hammer, that should be child's play, right?"
"Then what will you do?"
"Heat treatment and final inspection. I'll control the box bellows temperature and time the critical water quench. Break it into steps, and we're at least three times faster than one man wrestling a single sword."
It wasn't a modern conveyor belt, but specialization by process to maximize skill—the core of manufacturing, division of labor's entry point.
Rashid looked skeptical, but the bulging gold pouch before him vouched for my words.
"One more thing. Hasim, go to the market now and round up every charcoal merchant. Only hard hardwood charcoal—no crumbly junk."
If only we had coal, firepower wouldn't be an issue.
I swallowed the thought. Coal smelting was barely practical in distant Song China this era. Use it here, and impurities would shatter our steel like glass. Best to optimize the familiar, safe charcoal for now.
"Alright, Rashid. Let's heat the iron. We need at least two blades today with the new process to keep up."
At my urging, Rashid grumbled but grabbed the tongs. The box bellows roared to life with majestic breaths.
For days, our forge ran nonstop. Rashid roughly forged the rough shape, I took over to hone the razor edge, Hasim polished it mirror-bright. Like well-meshed gears, the process clicked into rhythm—when an unexpected visitor lifted the forge awning.
"Is this the forge of the craftsman Barakah?"
Oily silk robes, gem rings on every finger. He reeked of merchant, not warrior. Two servants followed, carrying a chest.
Ignoring the acrid charcoal smoke stinging his nose, he approached, dabbing with a silk handkerchief.
"I'm Zaid. I handle trade with the West for the merchants' guild in this souk. Heard your sword beat Kasim's scimitar. Especially the rumor you can churn out dozens of identical ones."
Zaid fiddled with a bladeless sword blank on the workbench. As his finger neared Hasim's sharp edge, I snapped coldly.
"Don't touch. Won't take responsibility if you lose a finger."
"Haha, razor-sharp—the blade and the craftsman. To business: those swords you're making? Our guild wants them all. 1.2 times the mercenaries' price. Even 1.5 if needed."
Rashid halted the bellows, jaw dropping. 1.5 times—huge over our mercenary payout.
But I kept hammering.
"Can't sell. Prepaid contract with 'Desert Claw.' And merchant, you know better: sell out your reputation, and the forge shuts down."
"Reputation matters less than the political winds. Know how the cargo manifests from Antioch harbor have changed?"
Only then did I set down the hammer and stare at Zaid.
Zaid smirked, pulling a parchment from his robes and waving it.
"European merchant ships loading grain, harnesses, massive chain links instead of silk. Even Venetians buying three times the usual steel arrowhead plates. Get it?"
My mind raced like lightning.
1101... Right. After First Crusade success, frenzied European nobles formed the second wave. Lombards, French, Bavarian duke— that ragtag host, the Crusade of 1101. If logistics are buzzing, latest by January 1101, weather fitting...
History said they'd shatter in Anatolia, but to Levant folk now, it was terror: tens of thousands of Western knights incoming.
Scarier than "army's coming" rumors? Economic shifts. War wrecked economies, devouring resources in a frenzy of iron and supply.
Zaid's words hung heavy, forge air thickening. But I smiled faintly.
As a history buff, reading this era sent thrills up my spine.
"Zaid, one question: those 'harnesses'—the horseshoes. Round shape, or curved inward at the ends?"
"Horseshoe details? Don't know, but thicker than usual, six holes, sturdy ones."
Confirmed. Heavy shoes for central Europe's swamps and mountains. Pre-ordered en masse to protect hooves crossing Anatolia's wastes.
Proof solidified. Massive iron wave from Europe. When they hit, local steel prices would skyrocket tenfold; weapon-bearers would be the law.
Zaid's intel confirmed the storm. Armies meant soaring weapon demand; win or lose, the land would drown in blood and steel.
"Rumors say they're crossing Anatolia. Antioch's Bohemond rages in captivity; Jerusalem's Baldwin scrapes troops shamelessly. Your quality could make you famous. Still cling to reputation, wiping mercenaries' asses?"
"Tempting, but contract stands. Instead, Zaid, buy my swords? Take something else."
"Something else?"
I tossed him a sword Hasim was finishing.
"Payment for the intel: one sample. Show it around. Say Silla's craftsman pumps out ten like this daily. Next time, bring latest soft iron ore from the West and war reports—we'll both profit."
Zaid caught it, nodding in admiration at the edge's gleam.
"Thought you were just a smith. Sly fox too. Deal. That intel arms us deadlier."
After Zaid left, I yelled at stunned Rashid and Hasim.
"Barakah... real war coming? Those Franks swarming again?!"
Rashid's voice shook. To these people scarred by the First Crusade, it heralded doom.
I wiped soot from my face, pointing at the anvil.
"War's already here. Rashid, what're you doing? Heat the iron! Not just fifty swords now. This whole souk'll buzz soon. Stockpile materials fast. When our weapons set the standard, even armies won't touch us—we'll hammer safe."
My shout snapped Rashid; he gripped the bellows handle. The box bellows' mighty gusts echoed like war's prelude.
I drew wider zones in the dirt.
"Hasim! Run water to the grinding zone. I'll rig a foot pedal. Rashid, make molds per this blueprint. For thousands, identical strikes!"
No time for slow growth. In 1101's chaos, our path lay clear.